Things I know for Sure
by luxeterna
Summary: "All love stories, if told truthfully, are horror stories." Kenny comes clean. Character exploration. The TRUTH- in his eyes
1. Chapter 1

All love stories, if told truthfully, are also horror stories. And while before we even met, any freshmen in school could have told you everything I'm guilty of- I've never been a liar. Even now, when you know me for what I am and hate me because of it; I still have this compulsion, this suicidal obligation to replay our snuff film over and over just to see if it will end differently next time. But it won't. And I know it won't because I wanted to take the hit. I wanted to be what I thought you needed. And even if you never forgive me for not tapping out, even if this means I didn't love you enough to stop loving you, I know if I could go back I wouldn't do anything differently. But I can want to.

Everyday I wake up and wear the remains of us the same way I wear that tattoo you put on my chest. It's ugly and makes me itch when I think about it, but what's worse the impossibility of ignoring what continues to breathe. For awhile I thought if I gained two hundred pounds and that tattoo stretched until the phoenix mutated into a duck, I might resemble what I'm positive you did to me. In reality there is no way to measure what the baggage you left me with weighs, but it feels a hell of a lot heavier than anything I could gain. Maybe I just thought if I could no longer recognize my body, I might actually be a new person.

Not that I'd ever tell you that. And I never told you anything I wouldn't tell my doctor. It's not that I don't trust either of you; it's just that you both have frustratingly restrictive view of what it means to be a healthy person. Take sleep for example. My doctor talks about my sleep patterns as if they were a particularly hideous design for wallpaper, and he would rather burn down the room than try to paint over it. Yes, you two are alike. But he may have a point.

Either my waking life has become dangerous and twisted, or my nightmares have become frighteningly mundane. Either way I don't think I can even trust myself anymore.

The dreams come in disjointed torrents, one scene after another sliding together, rolling like stormy waves through my mind.

Last night I dreamt I was sitting in a branch of a redwood tree. The tree was beautiful, but tied to my branch was a rope and in its noose hung the bloated, stinking carcass of a pig. Hanging like Judas Iscariot. Like some horrible, decaying, low-hanging fruit.

And the pig looked up at me through its terrible maggot-incrusted eyes and laughed- mocking me, its jaw stiff with rigor mortis. It called my name in a familiar voice. I tried desperately to block it out, but with its ugly brays of laughter, the tree began to tremble and shake. At last both became so overpowering, I was thrown from the branch and landed on my back with a cold biting pain**.**

When I opened my eyes the dream had shifted to another scene, another nightmare, but the overwhelming pain was still there. I was lying naked in the shower, the blinding florescent lights exposing everything clinically, ice cold water raining down from the rusted spigot. My hand was gripping one of my mother's butcher knives. The wide blade was lodged firmly in my back and I was bleeding out, my body circumventing a hundred tiny streams and rivers of orange blood water. My eyes closed again as my body lost feeling.

I woke this morning unscathed, in bed, as expected. The house was deserted, and I stretched and headed down the hall to forage for some breakfast. But something made me stop mid-stride. Thelight was on in the bathroom and I could hear the shower running. Looking in the open door, I saw the empty shower with the water running full blast. I walked in numbly and turned the nozzle off. Looking down I saw a butcher's knife lying in the stall- clean and glinting from the shower's spray. About a foot outside the shower door you could just make out half a bloody handprint where someone had tried to crawl out.

***More to come**


	2. Chapter 1 Cont

Maybe there came a point where wanting you became synonymous with wanting death, or maybe I just made that up. But if I did, I'm not the first. I've seen the news reports, I've read the blogs. In the past five years every high school student in this damn country has looked into the eyes of a dozen or more dead kids, their yearbook mug shots blown up on the evening news. A dozen or more dead kids who probably each thought they invented suicide. These little Sylvia Plaths and Alexander Hamiltons, each one the original author of _Romeo and Juliet_, each one a fucking genius for holding the patent on dying for love. And I've seen the celebrities, the freak gods they send down to tell us "it gets better." Sure it does. Those dead kids already knew that- that's why they left.

You knew about Juliette. You were told. Maybe you don't, but I remember looking at you that night out at the pond after we fought. No, not you, the rancid smoke crawling out between your faultless lips like a woman out of a motel room, and it occurred to me that even if you had an identical twin, nobody could possibly be as beautiful or disgusting to anyone as you are to me.

"_Qu'est-ce que c'est, ma petite?_" You were muttering to me around a cigarette, trying to fondle a flame out of a beaten lighter.

"Those fags will kill you," your intolerable British friend called to you as he came sidling up to us from the parking lot. I remember thinking he had no idea how close to being right he was.

You smirked at him with a bit too much enthusiasm and murmured, "_Quand on parle du loup…_"

"Can you shut off the gibberish?" At seventeen I could barely speak comprehendible English, let alone all of your foreign tongues, but my hands had minds of their own- and they were polyglots. I snatched the lighter from your fluttering fingers and snapped it open, forcing the flame to life again.

"What? You don't speak fluent gibberish?" I muttered as you leaned in close to light the paper evenly and inhaled deeply, eyeing me with a wink.

"You know I only speak conversational gibberish." I flipped the lighter in the air before slipping it back into your pants' pocket, wondering how long it would continue to work.

Gregory, the British invasion, was within punching distance now, not that I was thinking about it. I hated the way his yellow hair, the color of cheap straw chaff flounced up around his ears like a Shakespearian ruff. "Fellows," he nodded to us, a great bundle of papers swung under his arm. He cocked a brow at me, "Nice bruise there, mate."

I often forget that other people look at my face more than I do, and I had almost erased the Christophe's fist sized bruise indented on my face.

Christophe, evidently, had not. "Thanks." He answered Gregory.

Peevishly, I took the "_fag_" from Christophe's hands and inhaled the poison deeply, feeling the dampness where his lips had been with mine. Christophe gave his cigarette a sideways look but doesn't say anything. I thought he was unused to having Gregory and I in the same place at the same time. He generally doesn't have me around when his _grande fromage_ is lurking for what I suspect is the same reason people put the dog in the basement when company comes over.

***Bare with me now**


	3. Prequel

***Salut Readers- I thought I'd give you part of the background for this Kenny/Christophe relationship. Please note that only Kenny is penned by me in this chapter only. Christophe is written by a talented artistic partner who helped me find Kenny, push him to the limits, and make him the character he is when I write him now. I'd also like to note in all solemnity there are some things posted about this venture that are grossly exaggerated. I would never defame my former colleagues or post untruths about them on the internet, and I would wish that they would extend me the same mature courtesy. Please enjoy* **

Kenny McCormick: Christophe- how are you doing?

Christophe DeLorn: My fucking arm is still stiff, but other than that, not awful.

Kenny McCormick: Did you at least see a doctor?

Christophe Delorn: Hah. Fuck no.

Kenny McCormick:... you cauterized it with a fucking iron didn't you?

Christophe DeLorn: I am not a fucking idiot, Kenny. No, Gregory used some chemical shit that stitched it shut.

Kenny McCormick: fuck, man.  
>Kenny McCormick: you're going to drive me to fucking maddness, you motherfucker.<p>

Christophe DeLorn: Kenny, you don't need to worry about this. It's not the first time it has happened, and stitches are more than I usually get. I fucking HATE stitches.

Kenny McCormick: Well, I fucking hate when you act like a dipshit cava-fucking-lier moron. I'm the immortal, Christy- you're Kristen Stewart.

Christophe DeLorn: God. I know how to do my damn job. Injuries are kind of fucking inevitable in my field.

Kenny McCormick: I hate texting with you. you're a stubbornass basterd.

Christophe DeLorn: Come over then. I'm still bored as fuck. I tried playing a bit of piano though, it hurts but it's fucking possible at least now. So that's something.

Kenny McCormick: I will. You're a real ass, you know that?

Kenny pulled up to Christophe's house, muttering and swearing under his breath. He had been edgy since hearing Red's news yesterday, and Christophe's injury only served to aggravate him further. He hated the Frenchman's stubbornness. Hated that he couldn't be 100% positive Christophe would always be safe. Kenny had worked himself into a state of irritation at his friend, by the time he walked in to the house, no longer bothering to knock. He ran his slender fingers through his eternally messy hair, seething slightly.

Christophe was sitting forlornly at his piano, right hand dancing over the keys in a lovely melody, but his left arm still stuck at his side, leaving the piece dreadfully incomplete in his opinion. At the sound of the door opening, he leapt up quickly, hand flying to the gun at his side, before seeing who had entered his house. "Fuck, it's just you. Bonjour, mon ami. 'Ow are you zen?"

Kenny couldn't help but smile a little sadly at the sight of his friend at the piano. Forever drawn to the Frenchman, he walked over and kissed Christophe on the forehead, sweeping his fingers through the brunette's hair. Standing back up, Kenny held up the brown paper bag he had brought with him, "I brought you fresh provisions. Something tells me you haven't been worshiping fuckin Dionysus properly." He grinned crookedly, "Always a good time for a bad idea."

Cracking a crooked grin, Christophe stood and went to fetch wine glasses before Kenny could do it for him. It still bothered him slightly that all his friends were treating him as though he were incapable of simple tasks, even though he could still take down every one of them in a fight regardless of his injury. He walked back to join his friend again and set the glasses on the coffee table. "I certainly do need some of zis. My mozzer 'as been complaining zat I am drinking too much of 'er wine, and she is refusing to buy me any more for ze rest of ze week." He stepped closer to Kenny, smiling down at him, and brushed his hand down the boy's cheek. "Merci, mon ami."

Kenny took out a bottle of a hearty red wine for Christophe and one of vodka for himself. Kenny knew that the snob in Christophe insisted on glasses, but in the company of friends, he would take his straight from the bottle, thank you- particularly today. He threw back a mouthful, savoring the familiar burn. "Damn," he took another, " Yes, Red is trying to get me to cut back too." He rolled his eyes.

"Zat is why I 'ate women most of ze time, hah," Christophe smirked. He took the bottle of wine gratefully from his friend and poured a large amount into his glass. He had guessed that Kenny would not be willing to fully appreciate the wonders of wine drinking, but he still hoped, rather futilely, that the boy would learn to appreciate the very French customs that Christophe held onto so firmly. He took a small sip of the wine, savoring the woody undertones. "Zis is excellent. Your taste is quite good from someone who insists on drinking vodka out of ze bottle when a fine wine is present."

Kenny noticed Christophe's gentle fluidity, the way he phrased his movements. It was almost impossible to believe that Christophe was a born killer. He mentally shook his head, reminding himself to remove his head from his ass. If he wasn't careful, he would end up staring like a… like a girl. Kenny smirked and cocked his brow, "Well, I have to taste it on you, don't I?" He leaned in, hovering centimeters from his friend's mouth, inhaling the fine aroma.

"Oui. C'est vrai," Christophe breathed, eyes snapping down to focus on Kenny's suddenly very close, very tempting mouth. He smirked, however, and turned his head away, taking another sip of wine, not giving Kenny what he so clearly wanted. Tantalizing each other was one of the main reasons that their interactions remained so passionate, and Christophe was not inclined to stop that aspect any time soon. He bent down languidly, gently placing the glass back on the coffee table, aware of Kenny's eyes on him.

Kenny almost pouted inwardly, but hoped it was only a matter of time before the wine changed Christophe's tune. He turned back to his own bottle, wrapping his lips around its mouth, instead of Christophe's. He leaned back in his chair, the distance short between his own body and Christophe's painfully obvious. They were rarely not touching when alone these days. Kenny felt an almost magnetic pull to Christophe- to his hands, his mouth, his neck… Kenny swallowed another mouthful, "I spent the morning looking at townhouses."

Christophe turned to look at Kenny quizzically. "Townhouses? Why? Zat seems…. Unusual for you." His eyes travelled down Kenny's figure, then darted back up to the boy's mouth, watching him consume the vodka as though it were water.

Kenny shrugged, licking his lips. "Red in all her infinite fucking wisdom informed me that she could no longer live in her father's house, and would be at Clyde's until further fucking notice," He snorted, "Which is just fucking perfect. I mean, if it were up to me, I'd live in my fucking car forever. But whatever. I don't want her fucking stressed, and it's not like I have any fucking living expenses."

Christophe smiled, impressed with the overly-protective side of Kenny that he saw only rarely. He could relate. "Zat is a wise choice. If you need anything for 'er, you 'ave only to ask." He shook his head, slightly amazed. "I still am 'aving an 'ard time believing zat you are going to 'ave a child. But you are 'andling it well." He picked up his wine again and swilled it around in the glass before taking a sip, eyes staying fixed on Kenny.

Kenny shook his head, smiling. "I'm like, stupid happy about the baby, but I'm also scared shitless." He ran

his fingers through is blonde tresses, with slight anxiety, "But in all fucking actuality, the baby is not the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. I only feel for Red, you know? I took her whole fucking life from her…" Kenny trailed off, looking down.

"It is not entirely your fault, mon ami," Christophe said, more gently than usual, noticing Kenny's shift in demeanor. "Do not blame yourself for it. You are 'elping 'er when she wants, you are supportive of 'er. Zat is ze most you can do for 'er, and I am sure zat she appreciates it, even if she will not say so." He shifted closer to Kenny, their legs touching, wanting to comfort him.

Kenny could hear Christophe talking, and was trying to listen to what he was saying, but all he got was general tone because DAMN- Christophe's leg was touching his. Jesus, he hadn't been so reactive and so conscious of it since he was 14. His eyes shifted in their sockets over to Christophe's face, and his lips fell open in sensual half moon. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should be thinking about Butters or Stan, or someone who wasn't such an obviously terrible idea, but JESUS, he couldn't even think when he was around Christophe. All he could do was want and need and do his best to provoke some sort of reaction out of his friend. He resettled his body easily, allowing the vodka to calm him and loosen his limbs, drawing out a sort of unconscious boyish elegance. His shirt rode up slightly as he slouched, revealing his hipbones peeking out over his jeans. "Well… thank you. I know a baby cannot be something you ever want to even think about."

As Kenny shifted his position, Christophe's eyes fell to the gap of skin that had suddenly appeared on his stomach, and his eyes narrowed with unbridled lust. There was something intoxicating about being with Kenny, something sinfully irresistible about the boy. He took one more sip of wine before setting the glass down again, the complex flavor settling him into a more relaxed, more passionate state. His hand travelled up the boy's leg of its own accord, dancing lightly over the fabric covering his skin. "Tu est trés mauvais, ma salope," he growled darkly, leaning forward to stare down at Kenny.

Christophe's eyes sent a shiver up Kenny's spine, there was something about his hunter instincts that Kenny found incredibly commanding. When he was with Christophe in this way, Kenny never felt more safe, or more at peril at the same time. He leaned back from his friend, and stood, "I think you're getting cabin fever…" Kenny's steel eyes swept over his friend's muscular form, and he held up his keys, "Let's get you out of the house."

That was not the most preferable response, but it was true that Christophe /hated/ being stuck in the house. "D'accord. It is probably true. Zere is only so much time I can spend sitting in my room before going crazy, oui." He stood up and stretched his back, the vertebrae cracking loudly. "Where did you 'ave in mind zen?"

Kenny smiled at the sound of his friend's back and reached out to gently caress Christophe's shoulders. He wound up lingering by Christophe's neck longer than he expected, entranced by the other boys scent as he nuzzled him from behind. "I don't fuckin know," he said into Christophe's hair, "Wherever… whatever."

Christophe leaned his head back, resting it against Kenny's. "Let's just drive somewhere zen. I don't care where. Colorado Springs , perhaps, I 'aven't been zere for a long while." He turned quickly and pulled Kenny into him, grasping at his hair, and lowered his mouth quickly, fiercely to meet the other boys in a wet, heated kiss, before pulling away, smirking, and walking to the door.

Kenny glared after Christophe, feeling as if he'd just been electrocuted. He took another swig of vodka and carried the bottle to his car. He opened the door for Christophe and made sure he was situated before climbing into the driver's seat and gunning the motor. He pulled easily onto the road, feeling at home in his car. Turning to look at his friend he muttered, "You're so damn beautiful…" unsure in his tipsy state if he was referring to Christophe or his car- or, more likely, Christophe in his car.

Christophe raised an eyebrow at that, face breaking into a smirk. "Merci, but ze last time you said zat I was a fucking /woman/." He lounged back against the seat, legs splayed apart, and he glanced around Kenny's car, not having been in it before. "Zis car, she is razzer lovely. She suits you, je pense, mon ami." He turned his head and grinned over at Kenny. "And you are not afraid to go fast in 'er, thank god. I 'ate slow people."

Kenny bit his lip, laughing, "Is it my fault you made such a stunning broad?" He smirked, "You were so delicate and small." Kenny cracked up, "I was afraid of hurting you, Sweetheart." He shook his head, relaxed on the open road. It seemed so liberating- he could be like this forever. Just Christophe and his car. Life was simple here and it made a hell of a lot of sense.

Sorely tempted to punch Kenny for that, Christophe growled under his breath when he realized that he couldn't reach the boy with his right arm. "You are so fucking lucky I am injured right now, ma petite, or I am afraid you would pay for zat." He smirked though, enjoying the banter. He felt completely at ease like this, though watching Kenny drive was making him miss his Mercedes quite a bit. Instead of complaining about his arm, though, he focused his thoughts on watching Kenny's fluid motions, appreciating the way he maintained control of the car.

Kenny smirked, steering casually with one strong hand. He eyed the taller boy mischievously, taking in his expression, "It's like putting a muzzle on a fuckin wolf. You're a lot of bark right now…" He laughed and pulled abruptly off on an exit. "You have to play nice." Kenny smirked, feeling more like his old self than he had felt in a long time. It was growing dark outside, and on a Sunday night in a small town, the two boys were driving on near empty streets. The night was their playground.

Christophe grumbled at Kenny's statement. It was true, that was rather how he was feeling at the moment. Caged in. But he let his momentary annoyance slide away as he and Kenny meandered through the streets. "Well where are we going to go zen? Zough, I am content just to drive like zis, ze night is razzer good for it." He wanted to touch Kenny though; his forced immobility was immensely frustrating. Simply staring at the boy was not enough.

Kenny frowned at his friend's complacency- it was so unlike Christophe. Part of him wondered if he should have directed the Frenchman to his room, and made sure he stayed there, but he knew how much Christophe loathed staying home. He took a swig of vodka absently, and handed the bottle over to the Frenchman, before pulling over in a deserted street. He turned and touched Christophe's jugular with two cool fingers- a familiar gesture, his eyes asking Christophe for validation, silently.

Christophe took the offered bottle and took a swig, before brushing his hand over the fingers Kenny had on his throat. He stared intently at the other boy, a devilish look appearing on his face, as it so often did when he looked at the blond boy. He leaned forward, shortening the distance between them, and pulled Kenny's head towards his own, their lips close together, but not yet touching. "Tu est belle aussi, Kenny," he murmured, eyes fixed on Kenny's slate ones.

Kenny let a moan escape from between his lips. The vodka had completely relaxed him, and yet his nerves seemed hyper-sensitive to Christophe's hands. One of Kenny's hands reached up and wound its way through the brunette's hair. He paused for a moment, enjoying the feeling of sharing breath with Christophe. "Even in hell," Kenny murmured, his lips grazing the other boy's, "When I thought I'd be there forever, and you would go on living, I knew I'd have you one day."

Christophe pulled back a centimeter, surprised, eyebrows lifted slightly. "Vraiment?" he whispered, studying Kenny's face. "Even zat first time we met?" He brought his hand up to cup Kenny's face, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. "I admit, zat day, I was… fascinated by you as well. You captivated me. Who ze 'ell would 'ave thought we would 'ave ended up 'ere like zis though?" He smiled a wry smile, and shook his head slightly.

Kenny smiled, if only slightly, stroking his friend's hair, his thumb pressed over Christophe's lips gently. Kenny's fingers still lay on Christophe's neck, feeling his pulse, the Frenchman's life pumping in his veins. There was a time when he thought he wouldn't ever feel that again, and it was his choice that had made it possible to touch Christophe in their familiar world, a whole lifetime away from where they had met. Kenny shook his head, leaning closer to Christophe's face, "I don't know what the hell I was thinking…" he murmured, "But I'd do it again a thousand more times, if there was a chance this was the outcome."

Pulse quickened by Kenny's closeness, Christophe couldn't resist the blond's lips for a moment more. He tilted his head forward, closing the small distance between their tempted mouths, and growled low in his throat, his nerves suddenly jolting at the feel of Kenny's lips on his own. He parted his lips, greedily seeking entrance to Kenny's mouth, wanting to taste him, to consume him. His hand slid around to grip Kenny's hair, feeling the soft strands flow between his fingers.

It was hard for Kenny to not get completely swept away by Christophe's mouth, hands, and tongue, but he managed to kiss him back only a few seconds. He knew he would have to either get them out of the car now, or they would never leave, and he wanted his friend to stretch his legs. He pulled away regretfully, knowing both of their appetites were insatiable once they reached a certain threshold. "Jesus…" he swore under his breath. "You're the motherfucking devil, Christy."

Christophe's eyebrows twitched in annoyance as Kenny pulled away, but he pulled back and smirked at him. "Oui, je sais. What do you expect, zough, from someone zat you met in 'ell, hmm?" He reached out his hand to stroke Kenny's face once more, before turning and sliding out of the car, trying to calm his rapid heartbeat as he did so. He did want to walk around for the evening, wanted to make the most of his time out of the house, so he tried to ignore the desire that had been building since Kenny had first touched him that evening.

Kenny shrugged to himself. That was an excellent point. He followed Christophe down the deserted street, noticing how the other boy made virtually no sound with his velvet footprints. It was near torture not to reach out, pull Chris into a side street and beg the brunette to take him. At one point, Kenny noted, he had dignity, but that point seemed to be something of a distant memory now. He hadn't been thinking about his and Christophe's trysts when he had gone over, but with the Frenchman in flesh and blood before him now, it was impossible to keep his mind focused on anything else. He stopped them just before a darkened piercing and tattoo parlor and looked through the glass. In the back he could vaguely make out a worn, reclined tattoo chair. He smirked at Christophe, "What do you think that's really for?" Kenny leaned back on the window, one eyebrow raised, inches away from Christophe's grasp.

Christophe's face lit up, catching on to Kenny's idea. He turned to the blond with a mischievous grin. "Let's break in zen." He grabbed Kenny's hand and dragged him over to door. "Make sure zere is no one watching," he said lowly, and fumbled in his pockets to pull out a long, thin lockpick. He carefully inserted it into the keyhole, and lightly adjusted it until he felt the tumblers slide into place. The door clicked open, and

Christophe straightened with a satisfied grin. "Bon. Let's go."

Before they could enter, Kenny grabbed Christophe's good shoulder and pulled him against the doorframe. He tangled his hand around the back of Christophe's head and kissed him deeply, gorging his senses on Christophe's deliciously intoxicating flavor. He pulled back abruptly, but not before biting the Frenchman's bottom lip sharply, and ran into the shop, smirking. He led them to the back of the shop and perched on the worn leather chair, teasingly.

Growling at Kenny's taunting, Christophe slammed the door shut behind him as he darted into the parlor. He crossed the room quickly, and loomed down over Kenny, grabbing his chin and holding him in place. "You are such a fucking cocktease, ma petite salope," he hissed, brushing his lips lightly across Kenny's. "But since we are in a tattoo parlor, zer are ozzer things we could do, oui? I 'aven't gotten a new tattoo in a few years."

Kenny grabbed Christophe's shirt and pulled him closer, yanking his own off with one fluid motion. His eyes locked into the Frenchman's for one maddening second, before Kenny deliberately and slowly caressed Christophe's jaw with his lips. He moved down, trailing his lips across his friend's strong neck, down to his collarbone. Kenny's hand moved up to rub the back of Christophe's neck, soothing the stiff muscles from his injured shoulder. His mouth traveled back up to Christophe's ear and he whispered, breathlessly, "You know how to work a needle?"

Groaning under his breath at Kenny's touches, Christophe's eyes fluttered closed for a moment before responding. "Oui, je pense." His good hand moved to rest on Kenny's bared skin, unable to resist touching him. "What do you 'ave in mind?" He turned away, searching for the equipment he would need to administer a new tattoo. "I 'ave not, however, done zis before, and I 'ave only one 'and, remember zat."

Kenny laughed hoarsely, before pulling Christophe back to his lips in a kind of wicked ecstasy. This time, he had pulled the other boy's belt, yanking Christophe over by his hips. He paused in his attack on Christophe's mouth, looking almost thoughtfully into his friend's eyes. His scared, calloused hands reached up and stroked Christophe's face and brow. "Brand me," he whispered, "Put something of you on me- of us."

"Keep yanking me around like zat, ma salope, and zere will be trouble for you," Christophe murmured back, eyes glinting dangerously. He broke away from Kenny and looked around the parlor for the stencils, bringing them over to Kenny so they could examine them. "I want ze same one zat you will be getting," he said lowly, "so we will 'ave to agree on zis." He started to flip through the stencils, looking for ideas. Each tattoo that he already had memorialized something for him, and he did not want this one to be lessened by the mere fact that this was a spur-of-the-moment, slightly alcohol induced decision.

Kenny enjoyed the dangerous glint in Christophe's eyes a little too much. He hopped off the chair and circled around to where his friend was thumbing through the stencils. They silently flipped through pages, and Kenny soon began hunting through drawers and cupboards. Eventually he came upon a stack of dusty books, folders, and papers in a crate labeled Lost and Found. He flipped open a random binder filled with abandoned stenciled thermal papers. He held a slightly yellowed one up, studying it carefully. He turned to Christophe, his eyes burning, "This one," he beckoned. "Because you came back too."

Christophe studied the stencil closely, before glancing back up at Kenny and smiling slowly. "Oui," he breathed, "parfait. Un Phénix. Bon." He took the stencil from Kenny, and led his friend back to the chair. He studied Kenny's torso carefully, trying to decide where to place the tattoo. The boy's back was already covered, as was his own back, but the front of his chest remained unmarked. He held out a hand and placed it firmly on the right side of Kenny's chest, a few inches below his collarbone. "'Ere, je pense. Zis is ze best place. And I 'ave no scars zere, so you can do it in ze same place on me as well." He picked up the tattoo gun and held it steady against Kenny's pale skin. "D'accord." He smiled at his friend, and set to work


	4. Interlude: Bagpipes over South Park

_Credo I: Bagpipes over South Park*****_

You knew me only as that one thing in that one time  
>Did you know I did time and did you know on whose dime?<br>Cuz I paid the price  
>Things weren't right- they went ripe<br>Swallowed bile in the morning and took names every night  
>And maybe I wore the question mark, hoping you'd give a damn<br>When all you saw was a body who'd clean up, clear up  
>step up, then take the fall like a man<br>But fuck this town and its mechas and the bullets I've swallowed  
>And fuck the grave, up and down, in and out, as I've been allowed<br>Every resurrection, on and off, all these years  
>is nothing but a sick insurrection of my thoughts and my fears<br>If I have the balls to wear my briefs out like Clark Kent  
>my money in my mouth, and my brains on the pavement<br>Then why the hell is it so hard to wear my heart on my sleeve?  
>Oh wait- I know why, it's cuz whenever you leave<br>you might as well take my right hand with you,  
>rip it right fucking off<br>Now I'd rather spill blood for you than spill the feelings I've got  
>You say you swore the Hippocratic, say that you'll do no harm<br>but to me it's like the hypocritical oath that you've sworn  
>See, the problem is, man<br>I never killed no one who didn't fucking come back  
>And I hear how she lies, plies her trade on you about that attack<br>My whole life, I've been running from death, on the lam  
>but nothing killed me as much as letting you slip from my hands<br>Mother Nature's gunning for me- she's got postpartum depression  
>And what makes me distinct, makes me extinct in one long succession<br>So I know nothing will ever come between me and the truth  
>not being torn up, not when I have the proof<br>Just like the temperature, and your love, I know that I'm dropping  
>But before they hammer the final nail in my next coffin<br>I had to find a way to get this shit off my chest  
>and go back to hell or Detroit a whole new fucking mess<br>cuz I hope some part of you will remember and maybe give a damn  
>the next time someone asks you if you knew who I am<p>

***My original inspiration for a teen Kenny McCormick was this idea of a young Eminem, a sort of white trash hero with a bad attitude and a good heart. Following this inspiration, I took to writing Eminem inspired raps to compliment Kenny's persona. When I take on a character I like to immerse myself in his mind no matter how alien it is to my own. While I was writing Ken, my friends would tell me I would switch in and out of his personality during parties like someone with multiple identity disorder. This pissed them off.**


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